Dilemma
by 4ever-A-Nightmare
Summary: *Life was kind to her after her return to the FBI, with only the media to worry about. Yet, a 'bait' capture idea, by the agency sends her into the cat/mouse game with Lecter, but this time, there will be a winner. Winner takes all, loser sacrifices everything. This time it's life or death. **Chapter 5 is staying up and the story is going on thanks to the reviews. Cheers!
1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

**I have been milling around the amazing Dr. Lecter, and his wondrous fans. Obsession leads to research (research and me are besties) and fanfics. I may fail to capture their aspects, as I'm Naïve to many things in the movie and may give up due to lack of knowledge. **

**Summary:**

**Clarice is doing well, Ardelia's allowing her to share a room with her, and in her lovely spacious house, (now that Ardelia's boyfriend is gone). The F.B.I. has been sparing of the 'mistake' at the Lake House, and have granted Clarice her job back with no exceptions. All this comes to play when they tell her of a case and means to capture Dr. Hannibal Lecter, as long as she plays bait, they will not send her to paperwork and might advance her. How long will she play bait when threatened? **

**Disclaimer: They're mine! They're mine! Wait; don't eat me, I didn't mean it. *Starts to back away* Gah, as if they could ever be mine, don't eat me! **

* * *

**Prologue (a few days after the lake house):**

Special Agent Clarice Starling, as if she ever thought she would get to bear the title again. Her return had been too good to be true, it probably was. No, correction, it was too good to be true. There was a price, and she would pay it in due time. However, for now she was to pay the price of the media, the _Tattler _spefically, had been kind enough to welcome her back. Someone, an enemy in the FBI (too many to guess who), had delivered it to her after her awakening, as a "get well soon," card. Clarice had a few ideas and the bastards who did it would be holding their guts in after she had a through pounding of them. The lovely note attached to it put the cherry on top with a thorough note expressing ways she could go kill herself. The _Tattler_ bore the worst heading created.

"_Sick and Twisted Romeo and Juliet, the Cannibal and the FBI's Angel of Death" _

The thought writhed in her stomach, but she knew it was only going to be the beginning, and on that note the end of a social life. If she got a boyfriend after this, it was not going to be a very good one, perhaps Ardelia could help her with that. Inside the article, it accused her of having a physical relationship with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Despite, the tests they had performed on her in the hospital, _without_ her consent, to make sure of that. Yet, the media didn't care for cold facts, what they did care for was what they created. To add to the humiliation of the idea of a relationship, they had to give her a nickname, and not a very good one: "Cannibal Courtesan" or in some gossip "Cannibal's Concubine." The highly offensive term, made guys flee like mice from a barn fire and previous friends look away.

Clarice was sure the media wanted her gone from the FBI, and so did a good deal of churches with a look on the internet. The churches didn't say they wanted her gone, (it probably would be against their rules to directly say so), the Christians particularly; said they wanted her to fess up to the sin of being associated with a cannibal and beg God for forgiveness. Forgiveness, for being assigned to a case and saving a cannibal from an unfair, malicious death by man-eating bore; somehow that didn't make her feel all too guilty. Actually, it made her feel like she accomplished something, something that gave her a lot of BS. With the help of Digital Media, the little devil, enough stories were spread to make trips to the grocery store hell.

Another thing, the FBI had to 'search' her house, and said it was for better if she vacated it for…until Lecter was caught. Ardelia, an angel of good, had said she could crash at her place till Lecter was caught. In other words, 'stay at my place until they give up on Lecter and allow you to go back to your own.' With Ardelia's gap between boyfriends, it would work pleasantly.

The last thing, but the most prominent on her mind, was the figure in her nightmares, Dr. Hannibal Lecter. It wasn't the lambs that kept her up anymore, though they did appear, it was the lurking shadow of him in her mind.

He had fled, freeing himself from the cuffs by chopping off an amount of his arm, whether it was just a thumb, or above or below the wrist, she had yet to discover. Knowing him, he took it with him, and her, in the morphine crazed state, the amount of blood, and the momentary black-out, she wouldn't find out how much for a while. That was certian, there would be a meeting between the two, and she would find how much he had cared to check. It was that action that terrified her, chopping off a body part, no, chopping off his _own _body part, yes.

Clarice feared not for his return, but if he were to, for what? His little episode at the fridge had frightened her, not because he was a cannibal, and highly dangerous. No, she wasn't that normal, anyone who had met her could tell that, it was because of what he may or may not feel for her. If there was anything close to love, she was going to be locked in a cell. No-one wants an FBI agent that is victim of a serial killer's fondness.

A crazy thought struck her, a thought that kept repeating itself no matter what she did.

"Would she return the feelings?"

'_Not in a thousand years…'_

…

From deep in the mind of the genius came a single complex thought. Sent to dear little Starling in a letter.

_Hello Clarice,_

_W__e've had our fun little Starling, but if the game doesn't end with a winner soon, I may have to violate an agreement that was made, I promised your safety, but if you pursue any longer, it may not be able to stay that way. If you ever resume your chase for your so called 'justice' then be warned. If it takes physical force or other to escape you, then I will not hesitate. Goodbye Clarice, I hope I won't see you again, it would be shameful for a horrid accounter to befall us._

_Ta ta,_

_Dr. Hannibal Lecter M.D._

_..._


	2. BEGINNING OF THE DILEMMA

**Author's Note: **

**No reviews… I see, perhaps I may need to add who's in the fanfic for reviews. I appreciate the view, but a simple "I love it" or "you suck" would be helpful, criticism whether kind or not is welcomed with open arms.**

**Disclaimer:**

**I assure you with the limited knowledge I have on matters such as described in the book I do not own all characters recognized from the book. **

* * *

**BEGINNING OF IT:**

Clarice jogged the familiar route that she usually did. Two years after the incident and this seemed to be the only familiarity she knew. Everything at the FBI was false, and on that note, if she was ever assigned a case for Lecter again, that note, would send her begging not to go with it… mentally. Her job meant a lot and she would never allow herself to stop a case for personal reasons. Nevertheless, Dr. Lecter was someone she could rely on to be true to his word, and in this case, she wished it were an empty threat. Death for her would be a high inconvience to doing her job, and the way Lecter kills doesn't settle well in her mind. That lurking image of Paul Krendler didn't appeal to her, and she would prefer to not have the same fate, her brain wouldn't be too scrumptious.

The path winded through trees ahead of her and an overhanging branch caused her to duck underneath it, as she continued her way through the woods. Clarice usually enjoys the brief solitude that is accomplished in her runs, until lately; the younger persistent FBI agent in her department has been bugging her nonstop, such as during her runs. It made it more convient to get up early.

"Hey, Starling, wait up!" Agent Donald took a ragged breath and pushed ahead to catch up to Clarice, before slowing slightly to match her pace, she attempted to throw him off by running faster. Her attempt failed, and her peace was devastated.

She gave him a brief glance and saw the twenty-nine year old agent glistening with sweat, his blonde hair ruffled. The general sweatshirt and shorts, FBI logo on them, were streaked with mud.

"So, Starling, I wanted to talk to ya about something, that and I have a message for ya from Maven. He has a very important case for ya when you get back." Agent Donald pauses, taking a deep breath, as Clarice pushes the speed attempting to once again throw him off, and it fails pitifully as he notices her attempts. The agent is not troubled. "What I have to ask you does with the case. It's nothing personal, so can you slow down." Clarice slows down, not to her liking. He breathes in a sigh of relief. "_Anyway_, what I've been meaning to ask ya is… can I help you on the case, because it's going to be out far, and you get some help from agents, a selected few by choice of directors, I asked Maven and the director and he said I had to ask you so… Can I?" The agent's rambling caused Clarice to have to take a deep breath before answering.

"What's the case?"

Donald glances at her, then straight ahead.

"Well… I wasn't supposed to tell you, that was Maven's job, and he knew the case wasn't to your liking, he knows it's the one you're dreading so…"

Clarice knew what he meant. "Lecter's case has a lead, and he wants me to pursue it." The statement felt dry in her mouth, foul and unwelcomed. _Like the thought of shooting him. _Her mind chided, but she pushed the thought to the side.

Donald slowed to a stop and rested against a tree. She sighed, and stopped as well, Donald lacked stamina, and she knew that, because they had made her work with the trainees, as an instructor, then she was allowed a case or two every six months. Apparently, it wasn't as welcome as a return as they put it. She had been around Donald while he was training for roughly seven months, so his recklessness and failure to try to keep his mouth shut wasn't lost on her.

"Agent Donald, you want to volunteer to go after one of the most dangerous serial killers with knowledge of his past ways and tendency to kill officers and the "free-range rude" in excruciating ways."

Agent Donald regarded her questioning stare with a shrug, and then grinned.

"Ya know you _can_ call me Tyler, and a boy can dream right. Maybe I can take some pictures, find a cute foreign girl, and get an autograph from Hannibal the Cannibal." Tyler Donald grinned, his teeth remarkably pristine considering his habits with junk food as well.

Annoyance and the feeling of anger battled in her stomach. Would she ever take him with her on a case? That was like asking if she would voluntarily surrender her gun to a criminal.

"This isn't a free trip to another country; your life _will_ be in danger. If you treat the matter like it's a joyride, then you're asking for it. As for a social life, leave it in the states, we don't need you running off for a girl that you'll stay with for a week before finding a new one. When it comes to Lecter, stay seven feet away, if you're close enough for contact you're already dead. Do you understand this Agent Donald?"

The agent in question rolled his eyes.

"Oh, I understand perfectly Starling. I understand that you think I'm a player, a fool, and a trigger-happy-moron." Agent Donald growled.

Clarice gave him a leveled stare.

"Your words, not mine, now as for the matter of you going, no." She stated it blandly and turned away. Clarice then resumed jogging. If she let him go on the case it would be the end of her mentality.

A whine of annoyance sounded behind her and soon the young agent was jogging beside her again.

"I'll take you on a date." He bribed.

Clarice glanced over.

"No."

"I'll buy you something."

"No."

"I'll let you kill Lecter."

_'Oooh that stung, killing Lecter, as if she would do_ it.'

"I doubted you would do that in the first place."

"Okay, I… I'll pay you."

Clarice turned on him, her stress growing immensely thanks to the case offered and Tyler Donald.

"Will you stop trying to bribe me and ask me on dates if I say you can go?" She said dejectedly. Boy she was pulled the trigger that was pointing at her forehead.

Tyler Donald gave a wholehearted grin and pumped a fist in the air. Clarice regretted telling him he could go even more.

"Yes, I will, forever and ever, wait till I go tell Brady. He'll be so mad that I get to go after Lecter and he doesn't."

"I…"

"Bye Starling."

Before Clarice could tell him off, the agent was running off back the way he came, hooting and hollering. Clarice wanted to throw her head back and curse at the sky. It looks like without any further thinking, she had already accepted the case. She had taken a case that she had failed at before and she knew this case meant job or no job. This was probably the last time she would have to train idiots like him. Partly, because if she failed there would be no job and partly, because if she succeeded she wouldn't have to do the lowly job of training future agents. Now she was subject to confirm this with Maven, confirm she was taking a death sentence.

She jogged down the path, finishing the little round she had left until she would be back at her Mustang. Thoughts of Dr. Lecter crept into her mind and spun endlessly around. There was no going back, with him, only one of them could win.

…

"Yes, Agent Starling, come in please."

Her stomach dropped at Maven's expression as she entered. The case file for Lecter already sat upon his desk, the sight was ominous.

"I heard that you accepted the case _and_ you're planning on allowing Agent Donald to be on the case. He's a fine agent Starling; I would like him back here _alive_." Maven gave her a cold stare over the rim of his glasses before continuing. "I know that he is rash and sometimes careless, but he's a good agent none the less." He gave her a long look, searching her eyes for an understanding. Clarice nodded. "Now, as for the Lecter case… we have received a lead that he may, oddly enough, be in the States. That is not of his nature, but it will be followed nonetheless. I have had a few ah, other agents that started looking into the case a year ago, and they have tracked his movements by apprehending a letter sent to you by him a few days past. We know this may anger you immensely, but the letter was sent with a death threat."

Clarice kept her mouth shut, she was angry for the apprehension of the letter, but she wanted to keep this job. Too much objection, as seen last time, would lose her it. She hated playing the good girl, but she needed the money, and preferred this job. If they wanted to track the letter, fine by her, as long as she got to read it.

Maven pulled something in a plastic covering out and passed it to her.

"Here is the letter, we apologize for examining it and taking it without permission, but it _was_ delivered straight to the door of this building. The only indication it was for you was your name and it was addressed from him. We first figured his actions were reckless, but a second examination proves he's trying to draw us out for his 'game.' If you would prefer not to go on the case, we will understand, but we could have room for your _advancement _if you were to succeed."

Their eyes met with an aura of challenge.

"If I may read the letter in peace before deciding, I would greatly appreciate it." Clarice suggested.

He smiled. "Of course, I'll be back in a bit."

The letter wasn't horribly long and Clarice stared at it a while before attempting to read it.

…

_Dear Clarice,_

_I have heard that you may be resuming my case. If so, that's a pity, last time ended on a wrong note, don't you think? Do you fear that night; does it appear in your nightmares? As the lambs scream, does that night repeat itself in your mind? Tell me Clarice, does it bother you to be among the F.B.I. after what happened? How does that night make you feel, does it make you feel ashamed? Ashamed because daddy wouldn't like what happened. The loving watchman knowing his dear sweet daughter was having dinner with a canniba;/_

_That night still lingers in my mind, you looked stunning in that dress._

_Clarice, I fathom you received the earlier message. Continue with my case at your own risk. I don't anticipate the idea of a scenario between us, incarceration or your failure, applies to our current predicament. Currently, we face my death or yours. They won't throw me in a cell to rot Clarice, that "privilege" has been lost. If it's you coming after me, don't expect me to let you fall out. No, our game wouldn't have a winner. _

_Decide not to do the case and no more contact will pass between us. It's your second way out. You lost your first way out, don't you remember._

_Bye,_

_Dr. Hannibal Lecter M.D._

_…_

The first way out, was one she had never considered. Would she have ever, under any circumstance, told him, no she wouldn't have.

It ends soon, winner takes all, and loser sacrifices all.

Maven came back in, a coffee mug in hand.

"Agent Starling, have you made your decision?"

Clarice nodded.

"I'll take the case."

…

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**Ending Note: **

**Please, review, tell me something. Please. Tell me ya hate it, just tell me it means somethin. **


	3. PARTICIPANTS

**Author's Note:**

**It's nice to see a few reviews (by that, I mean like a gazillion). Critical reviews are epic; I like to know where I need to improve. Those critical reviews made my day, now to address the matter needed improved. **

**Clarice's personality:**

**My age and Clarice's supposed age at this time (37) has a very far distance. My lack of ability to relate to her and go with her personality is most likely caused by my inexperience in the adult world. However, with some on-going encouragement and my home-made study guide (Miss Nerd here) while watching the movie and reading the book may improve things. I do try, but please forgive me.**

**Description and Grammar:**

**As I said, still young, I have this year and four more left of the basics.**

**P.S. Updates get slower, cuz of track and stuff. I can run a mile in 8.55 minutes, I can run half a mile 3.26 minutes, and I can run ¼ of a mile in 1.26 minutes. I can update a chapter in three weeks or less after this one.**

**Disclaimer**

**Here lays me (dead) after saying I owned something I didn't... **

* * *

The newspaper sat upon a table and next to it the newest addition of the _National Tattler. _A man, glanced at the title briefly, but wasn't bothered by the horrid title that many would hate to be named as, but as much as he would like to stay and read the article, there were things of great importance that must be completed first.

His current, rather wearisome task, was preparing his meeting place with his beloved little FBI agent, and her _friends. _It wasn't the problem of where, it was the problem of the 'if's.' Ten agents weren't a problem in this location, but he would not like to endanger her or himself with the guns and blades. She was her own danger, his danger. Never did someone study him so intently and have so many encounters with him that they could repeat to the outside world. There were enough corners, plenty to make his little birdy feel safe, but not enough for his watchful eyes to miss her. Though one thing bothered him, the lack of electricity would grow tedious, much could be done with light, but he would make do with what he had. With that, the man set to work.

Percussion instruments were sprawled in one of the four entrances to the balcony area above that overlooked the stage. This entrance to the balcony seemed the most questionable one, as a trip could alert anyone in the building where you were. However, this entrance was closest, and this place was long forgotten. Of course, spiders had been building away, but by mankind, he was the only person lurking there. Two balcony entrances on the opposite side of the chapel, but commonly known as a theatre, were perfectly usable, but the amount of shade, and coverage up there would make a sane FBI agent to wary. His FBI agent would want to go that way, but she, if her morals still prevail, would not trust her back to him. One entrance was completely inaccessible, as it was dilapidated along with much of the lower row of seats.

Stalking in the shadows, he made his way up and looked around. His eyes glinted red in the still light of the dawn that peeked through the windows as they examined the room. Noting was out of place, but his surrounding lacked the grace it possessed when it had symphonic music filling it with life, or violins, cellos, violas, and basses blending together, added brass and woodwind with the few more exotic instruments adding in more unexplainable tones, and the piano, with its calm and soothing tone. How the man longed to see another concert of fine musicians again, but with his current standing, he would have to wait till the game ended. He would end this game, of course. _Every_ _game must have its end. _

Next time he came, he would bring perhaps a properly recorded piece of music he had heard in this chapel before. How he hated recordings, but it would have to do. If he could gift an entire concert to his little FBI agent, he would. Maybe in an alternate setting, but those F…B…I… morals made a tedious life with no real excitement. Perhaps if Clarice had learned from people like Will, who went down a cliff after his job with FBI, or Jack…, yes.

All work and no play made Jack a dull boy, all play and no work made Will a mere toy.

Where does little Starling fall?

…

After a small flight and a trip in rented black vans, Clarice Starling was ready to pull her gun out and shoot the younger FBI agent in the head.

"For starters, you know, Colorado isn't all that exotic or up to this guy's standards by what you describe and are you sure he's even there? I mean… hey Clarice… Cla-ri-ce… is anyone there." The impetuous agent waved a hand in front of her face.

Clarice's eyes remained on the spread out files in front of her, all of the evidence that had been withheld from her until now. Anger boiled in the pits of her stomach toward the bureau, but it couldn't be resolved now. Now, she was stuck with rash agents, misfits of the FBI, and a cannibalistic serial killer.

It's as if the whole damn world came together to plot her demise in the most humiliating way possible.

_Dammit, if Ardelia was here at least that woman would know where and when to shoot something. Trigger-happy morons, the whole lot of them, _Clarice thought.

Samuel Diggs, the victim of this quite gruesome death, which had led them to Colorado, but nowhere in the city did the trail go. The man was from the Wizard of Oz state, thirty-four, a known drunkard, and classified among the 'free-range rude.' Left in a building right outside of Colorado, but the cuts and the… theme… of the death was Lecter's work. No, it was no copy-cat, if it was; it was a good one. Yet, despite what the bureau had told her, her gut writhed. Support, they hadn't shown any. If she goes in there and gets killed the most they'll do is give her a proper send off at her funeral.

Colorado was a big state, and the lead only told them Colorado she needed more than that. Once again, the FBI sends her in with only one thing to go off, just like with Mason Verger, except this time there was no other person available for questioning.

Tyler Donald, who had earlier been attempting to distract her form her work, finally settled with insulting her.

"Okay, you don't want to listen to me. Your just too _fascinated_ by you precious little cannibal." He taunted.

Clarice barely even blinked, but gave the agent a long look straight in the eye that shut him up the rest of the way in that atrocious FBI van.

…

Snow was following thick and heavy, covering the ground and roads with a glittering white blanket. Clarice had promptly at arrival of the motel had gotten her keys and disappeared with Lecter's file into her room. The room lacked in every category, it was made for a place to crash after long hours of driving, not the FBI's best choice, but with weather conditions, the only choice. The room was repulsive with mustard yellow walls, brown carpet, one full sized bed, one very old and musty desk, and as an added bonus one bare light bulb with a rusty pull cord

Clarice settled for spreading the files on the bed, as the desk had no chair and looked as if it were going to collapse. There was one thing she was saving for when she was alone and away from the prying eyes of the other FBI agents. It was a note that was found with the body, a clue in any game that would enable the participant to take a positive step forward.

The note bore no recipient or sender, but it was put in an envelope originally, but the FBI had kindly taken it out and searched it. A handwriting analysis proved it was Lecter's handwriting, but the note was merely playful, no one had understood it. Clarice, on the other hand, saw a lot more potential in a two sentence note.

_Name and destination are different, yet alike. Though forgotten, it is remembered. _

It was too simple, eerily simple. If this was simple, yet overlooked by the FBI, then something about it was false. Her eyes took a second look at the paper, and she almost banged her head against the wall. Cheap ugly paper, cheap words written. Not him, not at all.

Her fist came down on the bed hard, and she was angered.

A false trail and she was stuck here until otherwise. They knew it was false those son of a bitches.

Those earlier notes may have not been false, but this one was. Something the FBI or someone added. Clarice didn't care who added the damn note, but now she had nothing to go off of, nothing at all.

…

"Let me see it!" An agent crowed as the note was passed around.

"Shouldn't we put it back in the case file bag?" Agent Tyler Donald pleaded, his eyes bugging at the sight of the evidence being touched by everyone.

"We have gloves on, and if you don't want to see it then go away." A black haired, blue eyed agent said who was roughly Clarice's age.

Tyler winced, and knew he had done his dirty work. He had gotten close enough to Clarice in the van to switch it when her eyes were examining something else; he had a bad feeling about this.

"Yeah, Starling was hogging the file; it won't hurt for us to have a look at it." The third agent added, his brown eyes sweeping the room.

"I can't wait to see her pissed off; she'll be so mad, right Marco." The black haired agent added.

"No she won't, I just put a much simpler note that sounded cheesy enough and Lecterish enough to pass." Marco, the third agent said shrugging.

"You write like a first grader." Tyler stated, his eyes shooting to the door as if expecting Clarice to come in and burn them all with her eyes.

Marco glared at him, and yanked the note out of Tyler's hands, who had finally grabbed the note. Marco began reading the note, and with a look of disgust passed it to the black haired agent, Steve, who looked ready to vomit and laugh and passed it to Tyler who began reading.

_Dear Clarice,_

_I find myself writing this against my better judgment. After all, you goal is to incarcerate me and send me away to rot in a cell till they prick me with the needle._

_You are capable of finding me, so I'll give you seven hours after your arrival at the revolting motel the FBI will most likely send you to with the storm brewing. Seven hours is more than enough time to figure out the Protestants and escape fetters and hell._

_Your time is ticking away, if the lights go out your time is up and our game loses a few participants._

_See you soon,_

_Hannibal Lecter M.D._

Tyler Donald examined the note and thought before pulling out a note pad.

"What the hell are you doing?" Marco asked, staring at Tyler.

"Lecter uses anagrams according to his file, so I thought he might of put an anagram in here."

They studied him before taking the note and slipping it back into the plastic and taking off their gloves. Suddenly Tyler's eyes shot up and he scanned the room. He stood his hand going to his gun.

"How long have we been here?"

Marco and Steve exchanged looks.

"Three hours."

Tyler took in a breath of relief.

"I'll give this to Clarice, she'll figure it out, and we can be on our way to the place described."

Steve coughed and looked at Tyler as if he was stupid.

"Give it to her, _give _it to _her_." Steve gesticulated madly. "Then what, as soon as she gets near Lecter she can tell him we were rude and we'll be added to the Cannibal's grocery list."

Tyler rolled his eyes.

"Same thing either way, four hours and the lights go out if you've ever read something it means someone dies genius."

Steve and Marco exchanged looks again, as if questioning everyone's sanity before Marco shook his head.

"No, we'll wait. When it gets to be two hours and no one's figured it out we'll give it to Starling. If that old West Virginian can figure out this guy how hard should it be?"

There was a pause, Tyler examined the peeling paint and dim light his eyes went to his wrist watch and he sighed in defeat.

"I play no part in this, in two hours I'll come back and get the note." His glare could have burned the room to ashes as he met Marco and Steve's eyes. "If you're not done by then and/or don't give it up may God help your soul."


	4. DEFINE THE RULES

A/N:** Aw, thanks, I thought a few might get irritated by the plot change; some people don't like OC's so if a few of ya get angry its all cool, if all of you get angry the chapter goes back to the drawing board. Some of ya will hate this chappy. ****My last author note sucked, sorry if I offended foreign writers, I didn't mean it rudely, so sorry it came across rudely.**

**Disclaimer: Ya know little Suzy that was in your kindergarten class, of course you don't, because she said she owned Hannibal Lecter and was never seen again.**

* * *

(Two hours passing)

Guilt was the worst for Tyler Donald. He fancied Clarice Starling and for the last two hours guilt had been eating his heart. If those agents screwed up the case then Clarice wouldn't be the only one facing failure. Tyler wanted to be like Clarice; to be barely out of training and catch the most dangerous serial killer of all time, Hannibal the Cannibal. This case fails, and he'll never get his chance. He also wants to prove to Clarice that he's a good guy and agent, but the complications of her psychotic cannibal crusher, who happens to have taken a certain admiration of Agent Starling, has thrown a wrench in the plan.

That wasn't the only wrench in his plan. Marco and Steve hadn't let him in. They had closed the door in his face, but Tyler knew that the worst had come. He would have to go to Clarice and tell her exactly what happened and have his head bitten off, metaphorically speaking. Not only was the thought unappealing and frightening, but very dangerous. The FBI had rules, and he had disobeyed quite a few in his risky move to appeal to his _friends_.

He could either wait and see what would happen, and hope that the phrase 'the lights go off' was not metaphorical, or he could smile and pad right up to the lion's den and see how long it would take her to devour him and feed his entrails to the Cannibal lurking near by. As much as he wanted Clarice's full trust and attention, that Hannibal the Cannibal was appalling to a man such as himself.

Option number one is to be done, he doubted Clarice would be going around knocking on all of the agents doors, she had trust in them, right?

...

Five agents questioned, four left to go. Most of the agents hadn't enjoyed her waiting for them to leave their rooms and head to the bar downstairs for a drink. Most hated being questioned by another agent and were angry that she doubted them. She knew those ones weren't lying, those that were lying would be especially ticked or completely calm. Agent Gilbert had finally gotten off the phone with his wife and she headed over to him. Clarice doubted Steve Gilbert would take the file, the man was not as intelligent, but she knew that lack of intelligence, such as Paul Krendler, did not make them innocent.

Her demeanor was peaceful as she approached the man. No need to scare the living daylights out of the agent yet, a certain doctor could do that with a simple, yet painfully derisive sentence.

"Excuse me, Agent Gilbert, a word please." Clarice winced as her accent rang through. Steve Gilbert walked over, his shoulders tense. She noted that.

"Yes Agent Starling, what concerns you?"

She looked him straight in the eye as she had with the other agents, a crucial thing to do when your trying to find a liar. Clarice may not have been as practiced as Dr. Lecter, but she wasn't just someone off the street.

"I hate to... disturb your peace, but a piece of file evidence has _disappeared_ from Dr. Lecter's file. Do you have an idea to where it could be?" Keen blue eyes pierced Steve Gilbert's and his hand twitched involuntarily. When he answered, his eyes were on the floor.

"No, I'm sorry. I don't know where the file could be." A brief pause and his eyes shot up to look past hers. "I must be on my way now, there is something dire I must do." He forced out a quick reluctant smile before taking a step to leave.

Clarice put up a hand, as a signal to stop him, he stopped. "Thank-you Agent Gilbert, may I accompany you; Agent Salvador's room is located next to yours. I haven't had the chance to ask him."

If Clarice was a lesser agent, her hand would already be to her gun and her .45 would be trained on his head for lying about file evidence. Unfortunately this man wasn't the brains behind the situation.

The male agent turned back to her. "I suppose..." But the answer was not to Clarice's question, but to the one circulating in his head.

Nevertheless, he allowed Clarice to follow him to Marco Salvador's room. _"Damn Agent Donald, Starling and her Cannibal are gonna kill me and eat me alive." _He thought inwardly.

As they arrived at Marco Salvador's doorway, they noticed it was cracked open. Steve Gilbert knocked before entering, but at the lack of Marco's lighter, pack of cigarettes, and Lecter's note, it was clear the man was still troubling over the note. The agent silently thanked God for his luck. Clarice stood in the doorway, her eyes surveying the room, they narrowed upon something, but she didn't comment, not yet anyway. He silently made his way back to the doorway.

"Well, I assume by the fact that he took his cigarettes with him that he went out for a smoke." Steve Gilbert stated.

Clarice shifted in the doorway, her eyes locking on something, and she stepped past Steve Gilbert and to the notepad that rested on the ancient desk . Written on the note pad was a few ideas Marco had about Lecter's note , and a little Note to Self at the bottom that said clearly: "The anagram is yet to be found, might want to give the evidence back to that bitch Starling."

Steve spotted what she held and blanched, nearly peeing his pants as he sensed Clarice's anger building, and temper rising.

"Agent Gilbert, I don't enjoy being stabbed in the back by my own agents and being lied to, and I understand that you are part of a group that feels a certain prejudice toward me due to my failure last time with Dr. Lecter's case and the _relationship _made by the Tattler, but that does not excuse you from the following of rules and laws." She said, turning toward the agent.

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.

"Save it, I've got a bigger asshole to take care of, the idiot with the evidence."

He nodded, but stepped toward Clarice, indicating he wanted to speak.

"I didn't mean for the case to be messed up, it's-what... what if Lecter comes and you freeze. Whatever happened the last time, wasn't supposed to happen was it? What did happen?"

Her cold and stony glare would have made a braver agent sink to his knees, the man in front of her stumbled back a few steps. Not entirely satisfied she made her way out the doorway and began walking through the labyrinth of halls in search for the evidence and the dimwit holding it; he was going to pay.

...

Tyler Donald slammed the building's exit door behind him and shoved past a man that was walking along on the sidewalk and stormed up the path that winded around the hotel, and to a quiet, isolate area with a few oak trees, a lamp post, and a park bench. A minute later he stood in front of Marco Salvador.

"Time's been ticking away, we have an hour till ten o'clock, seven hours after arrival, and you haven't solved anything. I'm sorry that your weak brain couldn't figure it out; now give me the fucking evidence."

Marco took a puff from his cigarette and watched the smoke as it disappeared into the air, his eyes dropped downward.

"Little too late to find an answer, isn't it? Guess we get to find out the rest of what his message means."

Tyler grabbed Marco by the collar and shoved him into a nearby tree, emphasizing the danger.

"You sick bastard, you did it on purpose, you are just one of the Starling haters, and you jeopardized everyone's lives just for revenge?" He shouted, his face contorted with fury.

Marco smirked, despite his position and wrenched the arms holding him loose.

"That sums it up, but it doesn't matter does it? She's just southern white trash that's a beacon for frustrated serial killers to come steer their way to the FBI's love with a couple of dead bodies." Marco slurred, staggering and that's when the alcohol hit him hardest. He stumbled and fell on his face.

In his anger, Tyler realized he hadn't smelt the alcohol on Marco's breath. The agent was out of it, and not likely to remember any of what happened or he said. Marco's candor was not free willed, but said without his knowledge, Tyler sighed.

"I'm going to look at the evidence, I have an idea on possible anagrams."

Marco pulled himself, up and onto a nearby bench, the lamp overhead casting a shadow on his tan skin.

"Fine by me, take it. Not worth looking at, probably devil bait."

Tyler Donald took the evidence from the agent, his palms sweaty, and began walking a different route back to the hotel. One that seemed quieter and would allow him to think. Marco remained on the bench, his hands fumbling as he searched his pockets for another cigarette. The man that had been walking along the path passed through, but not before Marco had time to insult him.

"Fedora's are for girls old man."

The man did not turn, but spoke, a metallic rasp came from his mouth.

"I despise the rude Mr. Salvador, and your actions have been quite rude today."

A snort came from Marco and he stood.

"What're ya gonna do about it old man, I could outrun you walking." Marco sneered.

A cold blade slipped into the "old" man's hand, and the moonlight caught sight of it.

"If insisted... it will be."

...

**I had a really hard time figuring if I should go on, and as a brief spoiler, no I will not go into the gory death of that agent.**


	5. WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, AND HOW

**Author's Note:**

**{BTW, that one guy wasn't supposed to die, the character's got a little... er... free. Now, I really need to go find Dr. Lecter and Clarice before they find each other...early}**

* * *

**Disclaimer:**

**My guard says the prison has been demolished, "by who?" The copyright laws and other Hannibal Lecter fans? *turns toward "prison"* No way, I don't see them? All I see is that nice couple in front of me: the guy has maroon eyes, and the lady has a .45 and an FBI badge. *Turning back to guard* OKAY, by your panicked pointing to the nice couple behind me, I can assume you're trying to tell me I don't own Hannibal Lecter. Okay, I don't, happy.**

* * *

Clarice exited the building into the cold night air, and her heart thudded. Ominous silence greeted her the moment she walked out the door. The building's structure and ways had proved obstructive with many dead ends. Cannibal pitfalls were not dreaded yet; Clarice trusted Hannibal to keep to his word more than she trusted the agents in the FBI. That was yet another reason for why Clarice Starling felt as though she was going to vomit.

They say that blood is it's truest color in the moonlight, and as the reek of that very substance assaulted Clarice's nose, she turned off her previous path and down another. Her gun was out, ready to shoot, and instinct took over and she slowed, keeping her breathing calm as she watched for corners. Perhaps she should call for other agents, but perhaps it would be better served not to.

Her feet lead her into a small clearing with a single park bench, a lamppost, and splatters of blood. However, the body was not be found.

A quick scan of the clearing and Clarice was thoroughly puzzled. There was no trail, no bloody footsteps, and no clue to where the body went. Which, in some cases, means the body was still nearby. She began to survey the clearing, her senses on overload as she tried to pick up the tiniest footstep or breathe, the tiniest sight of the body or the killer.

Nothing...

It seemed fairly obvious that the owner of the blood was dead; the blood splatters were numerous, covering the park bench, the clearing, a bit on the lamppost, and a few drops falling from...above? Clarice looked up, and part of her stomach twisted with revulsion.

_This most likely is Dr. Hannibal Lecter's doing... or another serial killer's... though I'm not particularly fond of dealing with two serial killers. Wonder who the poor bastard is that's hanging from whatever the hell kind of noose or torture_ _device that is._

In answer, an FBI badge dropped from the body, and pinned to the badge was a note. Clarice didn't jump, but swore loudly, taking a second look around. Damned sick bastard, leaving a note that she would find instantaneously on sight of the body. On second thought, which FBI agent was this? Not that it mattered, but if it was Tyler Donald, she might have a bit more grief, her boss would not enjoy his death.

_Who went out for a smoke, who had the evidence, who is a very rude man that I hate? Marco Salvador. What gives a certain person motivation to kill these kind of people, the 'free-range' rude? Dr. 'Hannibal the Cannibal' Lecter._

Clarice, at this point in time, did not care for the importance of his finger prints on the card. She knew it was him, and with that lingering thought, she unfolded the note.

_Clarice,_

_Consider this man's death a favor, I'm afraid he was only stalling your progress in capturing me. There is no timeouts in our little game, and with this perfidious stunt (not the only one he's ever pulled I assure you) I'm afraid he broke the rules. Don't break any rules that you can't get away with. _

_H._

The gears turned in her head and she frowned. She was minus one agent, the serial killer was already in the area, and there was simply too much to be done. That damned evidence... where was it?

This man was clearly Agent Marco Salvador, who luckily avoided her lecture in the unluckiest way possible, and he did not have the evidence on him. Clarice would prefer to pat down the body, perhaps make sure he still didn't have it on him before he died, but she doubted she would have enough time. Getting the body down would take all night and checking it after getting all the necessary items... it was too much.

A moment's silence and she surveyed her surroundings before reaching to pull out the standard walkie-talkie radio. Maybe, with some help, she could get the body down ten minutes tops. Her hand found nothing in it's usual spot and she faintly recalled leaving it on the l pitiful desk of the hotel room. Clarice growled, and began back toward the hotel. As she storms past a clock, she misses the sight of the hour hand on the nine and the minute hand creeping towards the four.

From where Dr. Hannibal Lecter stood, he could see the clock, the frustrated Clarice, and the dimly lit hallway perfectly. He stepped from the shadows, a smile on his face; Clarice's hurried state had weakened a few senses and she hadn't noticed him. Pity, he was hoping for a chat. It could wait, though, waiting wasn't preferred. His harpy was tucked in his sleeve, out of sight, and he did have a few back up blades. They weren't as favored, but he used them as efficiently. They too were hidden among his attire, but were easily reached.

He had his fun with his knives, especially trying out different techniques on his newer ones, adapting to their different handles and edges. Most were serrated, though he did have _one_ exception, but he wasn't carrying it. It stayed with him when he went out of country, but was stashed in another place at the moment. Although it did not look particularly magnificent in an abandoned area that did not erase its beauty.

Much like Clarice, stunning even at the darkest of times. A wildcat, it has a certain visual appeal, but it has claws that it guarantees one it will use. Next time he sees them unsheathed, he hopes it will not be in vain. If she doesn't go for the jugular when she hunts, then all of her hunting will be wasted upon her demise.

Lecter's muses on the possibility of Clarice's actions if she were a mother cat. Quite an amusing thought, but not to be seen... yet. For offspring, the stubborn wildcat would need to find itself a mate.

_Now there's something, though it is not likely she will pause and take in the consideration, but it is not a trouble. Nothing to watch, but yourself and your opponent means nothing left to lose. _

Hannibal lets that idea circulate, before tilting his head slightly as he pondered another idea.

_ That younger agent seems to be a worry. Rumor has it that she needs to_ _keep him alive for her advancement. Her very life essence is around her FBI job and her advancement in the world. _

His smile grows, as he anticipates the young agents death as he makes a round through the hotel. The labyrinth of hallways not even bothering him the slightest. Scenes of his next move pass through his mind and Clarice's face lingered in a few. Would it be horrible to predict her next move as her trying to negotiate if he threatened the life of hers and that agents? No, Clarice may not negotiate for his life, but an explanation about his plan and ideas in turn for the agent's life was another thing. At this time, if an encounter come upon them, then it would be brief and harsh. One of them tonight would walk away with an injury that may slow them down the next time they meet.

He slipped his harpy out of his sleeve to feel the cold metal and stroked the blade. She had her gun and he had his blade. His blade, the serrated edge harpy, and her gun, the Colt (government model). Though he didn't like to use guns, as they were rather annoying, he had used one and it had done the most awful thing to his dinner. Clarice, was suited for guns, and her Colt was fitting, better than the Glock she used when her Colt was confiscated. It would be rather amusing to leave Clarice in a room with a killer and only a blade and see what would play out.

Though such thoughts were entertaining, he put them aside for another moment and turned his attention to the hallway as he heard the breathing and footsteps of the man that had bumped into him earlier when he was rushing toward the late Marco Salvador. Tyler Donald rounded the corner evidence in hand, his head tilted down and the gears in his head turning as he thought over the possible anagram in the letter, unbeknownst to the serial killer who had paused to let him pass, slipping his harpy back in his sleeve. The agent continued on his way and the serial killer let his eyes wonder to the clock on the wall.

Thirty minutes till ten...

Tyler Donald as well let his eyes wonder to his wristwatch as he walked back to his hotel room. It was driving him mad that he couldn't figure out the anagram. Maybe, if he could go back and steal his sister's smarts it wouldn't be so hard.

A deep breathe followed his self-pitying as he tried to get back on track. It was right there in front of him, he knew it was. If someone could make the anagram, then it could be unraveled. He knew the keywords of the anagram. "Fetters and Hell." Somehow that was supposed to make something, make a word. Tyler knew those words were the mix up, because it didn't fit all too well. Sure it was smartish enough for a Cannibalistic Psychiatrist, but it didn't fit correctly.

Maybe if he worked on unraveling the whole note, rather than just a section.

Quickly he glanced around before stepping into a janitor's closet and he grabbed a pen that was resting on a filing cabinet and an unimportant looking piece of paper. The backside was blank and he was thankful for that as he wrote out the sentence.

First, he dissected the first seven, he noted it as a time limit.

"The time limit." He muttered as he wrote it down quickly.

Then, his eyes evaluated the next part of the message. "_Figure out the Protestants._"

He thought long and hard and he tried to recall how people would figure out anything to do with a religion - or at least he thought it was something to do with religion for he never attended mass so he had no idea. Then it him and he scribbled it down.

"Where would I go if I wanted to learn about religion, I would go to mass for crying out loud."

Another short breathe followed as he now had an idea of what he was looking for. Now, it came to decipher the infamous "fetters and hell."

Tyler wrote each letter down.

F_E_T_T_E_R_S_A_N_D_H_E_L_L.

Then he began to unscramble things. After five minutes he gave up and threw the paper down. He grabbed the paper again, and arranged a few letters to make the word Fell. Part of his brain registered that as an identity Hannibal Lecter had gone under at one point.

Renewed with a want, he grabbed the paper again. He crossed out the letters he used and wrote the remaining letters bellow.

T_T_E_R_S_A_N_D_H_E.

Tyler Donald began jotting down possible words.

"_The, and, heat, sand, theatre..." _

It was as if the shovel hit something hard.

To see what letters the word would leave, he crossed out the letters and wrote down the remaining two letters.

N_D.

_What the hell, what does it stand for, where did I mess up?_

His mind struck the jackpot when he recalled an earlier visit to Colorado as a college student and an old sign that said:

D.N. Fells College

- Sam's Chapel - Fells Theatre - Musical Arts - Vocal - Accommodating Dorms (315-400) -

_(Left campus)_

- Science Hall - Biology - Chemistry - Physics - Geology - Volcanology - Psychology - Accommodating Dorms-(220-314)-

_(Central campus)_

He didn't remember the rest of the sign, but he did remember the small font that had been visible in a passing second.

_In honor of Daniel Norton Fells, founder of this prized college._

After hurriedly writing down the name of the place in a messy scribble, he rushed out of the janitor closet, and into the hallway in search of Clarice. Time was going by fast, and not enough time was left to get out of the building and to the college.

The pitiful college is only left with the Musical portion of its reach, as that part was spared in the enormous fire that killed few, and destroyed much. The fire did reach it though, but only swiped part of the building. Most of the damage and destruction in the building was due to its age and erosion.

Despite its lack of occupants - as Dr. Lecter has left to attend to other business - the building is very much alive. In the particular portion known as Fells Theatre, originally a chapel used for more religious needs, but opted for a theatre, there is activity. One can see the sound system that has been set up glistening in the dim light of the moon. As one ventures throughout the rest of the building, an old room that has an old antique feel and smell is home to many stringed instruments, and an old bassoon that's out of place amongst the violins. Another turn and up a flight of stairs there is a hallway of endless doors, stretching through to make thousands of homes for mice. Some of the rooms were pillaged by "brave" juveniles long ago, but a few have basic items left.

Meanwhile, on the outside of the building, in the clouds, a storm brews. No ones expecting it except those who really do trust the predictions of little men in a box. What the residents and passing through need to know is this:

All is silent before the storm.

* * *

**A few may question this "What silence, this is them were talking about?"**

**In answer...**

**When one mourns the loss of an enemy, do we still stay silent as we contemplate the death of another enemy, envisioning what we will feel when we are less of one greater vermin in our lives. **


End file.
